Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"Volodya," Podkovyrov said. "Excuse me, but I just knew you'd be up."

"What can I do for you?" Danilov asked.

"I wrote this yesterday!"

Podkovyrov may have been a soloist, but he imagined himself a writer. He composed brief thoughts, and aphorisms. They were published in small magazines.

"Read on," Danilov said.

"This is it -- for Horns and Cloven Hoofs. 'Notice: Autograph hounds. In Les Invalides in the city of Paris at midnight, the emperor rises from his coffin.' How about it? Funny?"

"What's so funny?"

"What do you mean?"

"He does rise."

"Who?"

"The emperor."

"When?"

"At midnight."

"Where?"

"At Les Invalides. He gets into a blimp..."

"Are you joking?"

"No. I'm not. I've seen it myself," Danilov said and hung up.

"If things were different for me now," thought Danilov, "I'd arrange a little meeting for that jerk with the emperor. Rises from his coffin..." But why be angry with Podkovyrov? Happy people don't watch the clock...

"So," Danilov said to himself, "I've written everything that is necessary. Am I really finished with all my business?" He was frightened. He had a superstition. Whenever he left on a dangerous trip, he always left one thing, no matter how small, undone. So as to feel obligated to return. "I didn't get my pants from the cleaners!" Danilov thought with relief.

His trousers were one thing, but Danilov had never sat down and played Pereslegin's composition all the way through. And he wanted to. Danilov picked up his viola. Opened Pereslegin's music. And in two minutes he forgot about the duel.

The music reverberated inside him. It was freedom and sadness, and flashes of sunlight shattered into unknown colors on facets of crystal. It was the wind hammering on a torn piece of tin on the roof, and lace that crocheted itself, and rain in warm drops rolling down the back of someone's collar, and a woman's face glowing... His neighbor Klementiev finally banged indignantly on the wall.

Danilov put down the viola and bow and sat in silence.

He was tired and sad.

Suddenly he remembered the time and saw that he had been playing for forty minutes. Klementiev deserved his thanks. He had to get ready and he had to rid himself of all weakness.

But why weakness? Had the music given him nothing but weakness? No, thought Danilov, it had given him strength, too. If only because he now felt the need to perform Pere-slegin's music, both for himself and for the public. And to do that he had to win and return. Danilov discounted the possibility that he could win but not return.

Danilov switched the link on his bracelet, and called Bek Leonovich. Bek Leonovich appeared. He was pale. Once upon a time he made the trip from Kokanda to Moscow by camel, donkey and train, but now Danilov was asking him to fly all over the place. And now he was about to undertake not a flight but a transportation. Bek Leonovich's teeth chattered.

"Just close your eyes," Danilov said, "hold on to my hand, and we'll be there in a minute. If something happens to me, my opponent will bring you back... All right... we're off!"

And they were at the site of the duel. "O Earth! O life! O Love! O music! Is this the end?" Danilov thought, as if he were still traveling. Bek Leonovich's fingers, clutching his left hand, brought Danilov back to his senses.

"Calm down, Bek Leonovich," Danilov said. "Here we are. Pretend you're on Third Novo-Ostankinskaya Street. You can walk, you can soar, you can swim...."

It was black, airless, cold, and for some reason damp. Bek Leonovich unclutched his fingers, and began walking around and touching space as if it were a wall. Then he opened his eyes.

"They're not here," he said.

"Five minutes to go," Danilov said, soothing him. "Do you have the map?"

"Yes," Bek Leonovich said.

He meant the map of the stars. Danilov looked at the complex of yellow, blue, and green lines, at the circles of solar systems, and pointed:

"We're right here." And added: "Perhaps... did you bring the chalk?" he asked Bek Leonovich.

"Yes ... and here's the flashlight."

At six Karmadon and his second had not arrived. Something was wrong. Danilov felt that Karmadon was nearby, but where? "What if he arrived invisible?" thought Danilov. Dueling had been outlawed seventy years ago, and duelists were punished severely. Maybe Karmadon was hidden in a fog for reasons of well-being? But at six he was required to appear at the barrier in the flesh. They had selected a remote spot, at the very edge of infinity. Danilov shined the flashlight on the map. That was the problem! The green line of their sector bumped into a yellow line, and disappeared. Danilov thought angrily! "Why didn't I take a better look myself!" Of course, both Karmadon and his second, if they had followed this map, would end up at a yellow point. Or even a blue one! Finally Danilov found two grim figures in capes with his telescope. They were standing far away!

Danilov and his second transported to them. In the sky above hung a dying star, like a tulip, its pink light languorous and evil. Karmadon waved his hand nervously:

"Hurry up!"

The seconds started putting up the barrier. It was just what was required: a light and sound barrier, marked by broadswords. Sinezud fastened Danilov's mittens, the ones Mrs. Muravlyov had knit for him last winter, to a broadsword. Sinezud was self-important, haughty. His badges from different universes were pinned on his cape, and they reflected the light of the dying star. Bek Leonovich and Sinezud went to examine the missile installations. Bek Leonovich behaved admirably; he did not tremble and even noticed an error in the sighting system of Karmadon's installation. Then Sinezud and Bek Leonovich checked the cover from which they would observe the duel. And here, too, the Ostankino-dweller was a brave fellow.

Finally everything had been checked and arranged. The seconds stood back to back on a chalkmark between the broadswords.

"March!" Sinezud commanded.

He and Bek Leonovich each took eleven paces and, on the spots where they stopped, they stuck broadswords into space. Then Sinezud claimed that Bek Leonovich's paces were larger than his own, and therefore Karmadon's interests were suffering. He himself paced off eleven steps from the mark to Danilov's broadsword. The distance had been measured honestly.

"Come together!" Sinezud commanded gruffly.

Danilov and Karmadon -- each from his marker -- moved toward the other.

They stopped at the chalkmark. The barrier separated them. If looks could kill, Danilov and Karmadon were trying to turn each other into ashes. Karmadon was terrifying and impatient -- there was no hope of accommodation or mercy from him. Danilov did not expect accommodation or mercy. He felt as if he were about to burst into flames, like birch bark under the fiery beam of a magnifying glass.

"Separate!" Danilov heard.

Bek Leonovich trembled, and yellow blisters appeared on the dying pink star -- Karmadon's gaze had slid over it. Danilov's throat was dry, his fingertips felt prickly. He had to calm down and come out fresh and cool on the firing range.

Sinezud waved his arm, and he and Bek Leonovich headed for cover. Danilov and Karmadon went to their installations, looked over the systems and shields one more time, turned on the tracking-system screens, and announced they were ready.

"Commence!" came Sinezud's command from the shelter.

Karmadon was supposed to shoot first. Six hundred kilometers separated him from Danilov. "What's he hesitating for?" Danilov said recklessly. And then Danilov saw an enormous Karmadon, standing right in front of him. Danilov was afraid. It was eerie. No, Karmadon wasn't in front of him, he was at his firing line. But he had grown, magnified himself; he was a hundred kilometers high, his eyes shut with dead eyelids, a gold giant ready to squash a tiny creature. "Why is he trying to scare me?" thought Danilov. "Why look so horrible? As if I were a child or a coward ..."